by Lisa Roecker
Ahead, a grouping of old ladies who were clearly besties with the old hag I’d scandalized upon my arrival not-so-subtly gave Bradley and me the once-over. My blue hair obviously clashed with the overall décor of the club in that it was neither old nor expensive.
I almost stopped dead in my tracks when I felt Bradley’s hand move down over my arm. His fingers clasped my own, and I had the overwhelming urge to apologize for walking too close and accidentally forcing our hands together. But his hand didn’t fall away. Instead, the closer we walked to the women, the tighter he held on, determination hardening his features, his grip borderline hurting my hand.
“Mrs. Portney, Mrs. Howard, Mrs. Jacobson.” He gave each of the women, whose mouths now hung open ever so slightly, a curt nod as we strolled past, and I couldn’t help but smile at their shocked faces. They obviously thought Bradley was slumming with some tart with blue hair. Meanwhile my hand was on fire with…friendship.
“Sorry, that was just too easy. Mrs. Howard remembers the good ole days when the only black people around here were watering the golf course.” Bradley leaned close, his breath moving the tiny hairs around my ear.
“And here I thought they were just admiring my hair.” I fluffed my ponytail and Bradley snorted, our heads practically touching as we entered the parlor.
“Oh…” Naomi said. Her eyes zeroed in on our hands, still firmly clasped. I yanked my hand from his and wiped it across my jeans for good measure. “I was just leaving.” She busied herself gathering together her loose papers and shutting textbooks with a thud. Clearly she wasn’t anywhere near finished.
Bradley didn’t seem fazed by his younger sister, but my stomach clenched at the thought of Naomi misunderstanding anything between her brother and me. Not only was it common knowledge that Liam and I were together, but she’d just told me minutes before to be careful. She wasn’t stupid. She wasn’t jealous. She’d given me fair warning.
“Meet you by the valet in ten?” Bradley said as he threw himself onto the overstuffed couch closest to the fire.
“Nah, I’ll call Mom.” And then Naomi was gone, rushing off without ever making eye contact with me or saying good-bye.
Awkward. I wondered for the millionth time if maybe I was talking to the wrong person in all of this. As I lowered my body onto the fluffy couch next to Bradley, suspicion strangled me all over again. I decided to model Bradley’s way of doing things and cut right to the chase.
“How do I know you’re not setting me up?” And the second the words were out of my mouth, everything sort of crystallized in my mind. The phone in his pocket, the switched texts, the Amicus message, the hand-holding.
“I have no idea how to convince you of anything, Kate. All I know is that according to you, Bethany is gone. And according to everyone else, she’s at a yoga retreat.” His voice trailed off a little, but I still caught the last part. “Not that I’m surprised.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? Not that you’re surprised?” He lowered his head a little and avoided my eyes. He was hiding something. I felt a new resolve. “What do you know?”
I was going to find something out. I was going to get somewhere. Something was going on. We weren’t crazy. This was all worth it. The problem was that everything was so muddled and twisty that sometimes it felt like every time I got a new piece of information, I ended up more confused than I had been before. One step forward, five million steps back and all that.
“It’s nothing.” I didn’t even have to roll my eyes or snap at him for him to pick up that his answer was not going to fly. “Well, it’s Conventus. She’s against it, so I could see why someone might try to get rid of her. You wouldn’t understand. It’s society stuff. But with the vote on Tuesday, I’m not surprised she’s gone. Taylor shouldn’t be either.”
And a bell went off. Conventus. The word was important. I’d heard it as we watched the boys circle Bradley. I’d found it in his room, heard him whisper about it in the hallway. It meant something.
“What’s Conventus?”
He shook his head quickly and didn’t even consider letting me in. “Listen. Don’t worry about Bethany. She can take care of herself.” He shut down. Again. But I wasn’t going to let it happen. Not this time.
“I don’t believe you.” I lowered my chin and fought the humiliating urge to cry. It was so stupid. But the more I tried to fight them, the more I felt the tears gather along the edges of my lashes, the burn snake its way up my esophagus. The entire night had been such a waste. I’d lost my boyfriend, and I hadn’t even made any progress in the process. It was a throwaway, a wash. And the cherry on top was apparently going to be me bawling like a baby because some stupid boy wouldn’t tell me what Conventus was.
Screw that. I zipped up my jacket and grabbed my bag from the floor. I didn’t need Bradley Farrow to tell me about Conventus. I had other resources, other options.
“Kate, wait.” Ignore. I mentally pressed the button and shut out Bradley’s sickeningly smooth voice like I would a phone call from my mom or dad. “Wait!” He gripped my upper arm and spun me around, placing his phone squarely in the center of my palm. “Check my messages. I really don’t care. I swear to you I’m not hiding anything. There are just things I can’t tell you. I’m sorry. I really am.”
As much as I tried to avoid his golden eyes, they locked in on my own, urging me to scroll through his phone, to look through a window into his personal contacts.
So I did.
But not before walking a few feet away. Reading someone’s personal messages felt a little like reading a letter in front of the person who wrote it to you. Mega awkward, so a little distance was mandatory. I scrolled right through to the days before Bethany’s disappearance. There were all sorts of outgoing messages—a few to Bethany about random plans the group had made and even one from Bethany about Econ homework. Either he had deleted any incriminating messages immediately after sending them or he was telling the truth. But with completely neutral messages from Bethany coming in around the same time as the much more violent ones on her phone, I found it hard to believe he was responsible.
Someone was hiding something, and for the first time all night, I felt confident it wasn’t Bradley.
And then his phone vibrated.
Did u take care of her yet?
Alistair. I frantically deleted the message before walking back to the fire. Clearly Bradley couldn’t be trusted, but he didn’t need to know that. Something told me I’d be better off if he thought we were friends. I tossed the phone back to him.
“You win. I trust you.”
He smiled his toothpaste-commercial smile and slung his arm around my shoulder as we walked out to his car. The old ladies tittered, and that uncomfortable heat burned through my thin sweater and coiled down my back again.
You know what they say: “Keep your friends close and ridiculously gorgeous guys who should be your enemy even closer.”
Chapter 35
After Bradley dropped me off at my house, I briefly considered throwing on my coat and walking over to Seth’s, but that would have required answering a lot of really annoying questions from Mrs. Allen. Plus there was always one place you could count on finding Seth after 10:00 p.m., and going there required a computer. I was about to do something I swore on my life that I’d never, ever do. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned over the past couple years, it’s never say never.
I pulled up a new window and typed in the web address for TwiChat.com. When prompted for a screen name, I decided to go with the old standby, “BellaBlows.” If nothing else, I’d definitely stand out.
The chat was in full swing by the time I got in. Judging from the flurry of responses, tonight’s topic was something about Edward’s desire to keep Bella a mere mortal. Just as I was getting ready to type in a quick comment about Edward being a misogynistic asshat, I saw someone with the screen name WereWolfEdwardWhenBellaNeededHim. It had to be Seth. He’s the only person who would possibly come up with a screen n
ame that involved.
I figured a private message would be my best bet.
BellaBlows: Jacob rules, Edward drools.
WereWolfEdwardWhenBellaNeededHim: I tend to agree, but what’s up with your screen name? Bella is a goddess.
BellaBlows: Bella is a weak damsel in distress who is completely reliant on supernatural male creatures to avoid walking off a cliff on a daily basis.
WereWolfEdwardWhenBellaNeededHim: Kate????
BellaBlows: HA!
WereWolfEdwardWhenBellaNeededHim: What are you doing here? I’m supposed to be moderating the chat, and EdHard and Jacob4Hire are at it again.
BellaBlows: We need to talk…
WereWolfEdwardWhenBellaNeededHim: Can’t this wait?
BellaBlows: Do you really think I’d be in this chat if it could?
BellaBlows: Please?
I waited for a minute and got nothing but a flashing cursor as a response. And then I heard something skitter across my window.
When I opened the shade, I saw the familiar red ringlets and Seth’s sheepish smile below. I jerked open the window.
“You’re here.”
“Aren’t I always?”
I couldn’t help but laugh, because that was the thing about Seth. Whenever I really needed him, he was always there. And despite the fact that I was constantly giving Seth a hard time for his incessant questioning, he always avoided the right questions. As much as I’m sure it drove him crazy not to know, he didn’t utter a word about Liam. And I could have kissed him.
Seth made a big show of attempting to climb up the trellis on the side of our house before I finally convinced him to come in through the front door like a normal person. My parents had left to go to a fundraiser, but even if they had been home, they would have been thrilled to see our neighbor. He fell squarely into their “good influence” friend sector. There’s a lesson about irony in there somewhere.
It didn’t take long for me to explain the entire Bradley story to Seth, detail for detail. Well, except for the email to Grace and the goose bumps. This wasn’t a romance novel. As I rambled, Seth shoved the last of a king-sized Butterfinger bar in his mouth and wiped his lips with the back of his hand.
“So, Conventus, huh?” He raised an orange eyebrow.
“Yeah, I mean, I definitely don’t trust Bradley, but there’s got to be some connection. It keeps popping up.”
Seth nodded and I could almost hear the gears grinding in his brain as he tried to figure out exactly what we needed to do next. “I think we need a third-party assist.”
I rolled my eyes, reading his mind. “Seth, I don’t have time to wait for ConspiracyMother to check his email.”
Seth was involved in an absurd number of online communities, his most active being the Northern Ohio Association of Conspiracy Theorists (NOACT—an appropriate acronym for a group of guys who consistently saw no action in every sense of the word). ConspiracyMother, as I liked to call him, was one of Seth’s online buddies and knew a crap ton about the secret societies that ruled our school.
“It’s ConspiracyLuvR,” Seth said, drawing out the “Love” part to be sure I got it, “and I know we don’t have time to wait. That’s why we have to go to him.”
“Wait, you know where he lives?”
A blush crept from Seth’s ears to his cheeks, hiding his freckles for a minute. “I interviewed him for an I-Search paper one time.” Seth pushed red curls back from off his forehead. “And I’d cool it on the criticizing. You need my help, remember?”
Seth was the only teenager I knew who used the words “cool” and “it” in that order. Seventeen going on forty. But he was right. Who was I to argue? I whipped my hair into a messy blue ponytail, pulled a sweatshirt over my head, and slipped my feet into my boots.
We were going in. Er…technically we were going out.
“Uh, so are you going to borrow your mom’s van, or what?” I asked as we walked out into the frigid January air.
“We don’t need a car. ConspiracyLuvR is closer than you think.” Seth smiled and began walking across the street.
I was slightly horrified when we walked approximately one block down our street, and then Seth steered me up a long, winding driveway that led to a somewhat neglected-looking house.
I grabbed Seth’s arm before we got any closer to the house. “Wait, so ConspiracyMother lives on our street? How have you failed to mention this in the past?”
“Well, you never asked. Besides, the first rule of Conspiracy Club is that you don’t talk about Conspiracy Club. And the second is that you never, ever discuss a member’s true identity.”
“I think you’ve watched Fight Club one too many times.”
“Look, do you want to talk to him or not? He’s our best bet at this point.” Seth raised his eyebrows and looked at me expectantly.
“Yeah, yeah, let’s go.”
I shuffled my feet as he rang the doorbell, wondering for the five hundredth time that day what I’d gotten myself into. Some sort of a scuffle ensued behind the heavy door, and I heard a scream, a few cries of “Mom!” and what sounded like an inordinately large person knocking into furniture.
“He’s one of four,” Seth whispered as a man with over a week’s worth of stubble threw open the door. He was wearing a dirty, gray robe that had probably once been white and a stained undershirt with what appeared to be some type of long johns. A thirty-something-year-old woman shoved into him, jockeying for position, and he pinched her arm, eliciting a sharp cry.
“It’s for me, nerdzoid,” the man spat at the woman, who took one look at us and turned away.
“Have fun with your loser friends, dickwad,” she called over her shoulder.
The man opened the screen door and in an oddly professional tone of voice said, “Seth, man, what’s happening?”
“Hey, Mark,” Seth said. “I have a huge favor. Are you busy?”
“Not at all. Come on in.” Mark, aka ConspiracyLuvR, opened the door wide enough so we could fit and led us through the living room and into the house. I was immediately assaulted by the smell of bacon bits and maple syrup.
Knickknacks covered every square inch of the place, and I had the sneaking suspicion that this thirty-something-year-old man-child still lived with his parents. And apparently so did his sister, who was currently lounging on the couch in what looked like adult-sized footie pajamas or a Snuggie. I wasn’t sure which was worse. She lifted her middle finger at me as we headed up the stairs. Classy.
We entered Mark’s room, which featured Star Wars wallpaper, bedding, and even action figures positioned on shelves. Mark headed toward a desk and sat behind a fancy-looking computer, his hands clasped behind his head.
“What can I do for you?”
Seth elbowed me in the ribs as though we were approaching the Wizard of freaking Oz, as opposed to a haggard-looking, middle-aged computer geek who clearly lacked an appreciation for general hygiene.
“So this thing called Conventus keeps coming up with the societies, and I sort of need to know what it means.” I launched right in. The smell that permeated this entire house was making me nauseous, so the sooner we were done here, the better.
“Conventus, conventus, conventus…” he said, tapping the desk lightly as he thought. Recognition dawned as he typed furiously on his keyboard, nodding his head and mumbling to himself.
As I tried to make out what he was saying, his bedroom door flew open. His sister pushed her head in and yelled, “Hey, butthead. Mom says it’s your turn to unload the dishwasher.” I tried to remember the last time I’d heard the word “butthead” used in a sentence, and I was 99 percent sure that it was in reruns of ’90s MTV cartoons.
“Nice try, Patty. I did it last time.” He threw a ball at her head as she slammed the door back shut. I could hear her yelling for her mom behind the closed door.
Where the hell were we?
“It means unity, right?” Seth chimed in, looking nervously at the door.
“Au contrai
re, my friend,” Mark said. “Au contraire.” He raked his fingers through the thinning hair on his head, making it stand at odd angles. “‘Conventus might mean ‘unity’ in Latin, but it is the single most divisive issue among the secret societies to date. You see, the Farrows have long advocated for the merging of the two societies that divide their family. That’s commonly referred to as Conventus. As students, Mr. and Mrs. Farrow fought hard to form a union but failed.” He folded his hands together to emphasize his point.
My eyes widened a little. “Wait, so they want to merge the Brotherhood and the Sisterhood into one society?”
“Precisely,” Mark said while typing something into his computer. He pulled up some sort of archive on the screen and punched in a password. I glanced at all of his Star Wars paraphernalia and figured it was probably something like “skywalkersdabomb” or “lukeiamyourfather.” But when I noticed the Harvard diploma hanging on the wall, I decided it might be something closer to “CrimsonIntheCrapper.”
“They’ve been working on negotiating a truce and a union ever since their respective terms leading the societies.”
This was getting interesting. I walked closer to his computer screen and sat on the stool beside his swivel chair. On the screen were row after row of what appeared to be senior pictures but were really Sisterhood membership photos. They wore pristine white shirts featuring the Pemberly crest. I recognized Mrs. Farrow right away. She looked almost exactly like Naomi. I narrowed my eyes at another familiar face, trying to place her.
“Who’s that?” I pointed to the screen at the gorgeous blond.
“That’s Catherine Richardson. She single-handedly destroyed Conventus when the Farrows tried to push it through in ’83.”
Mark continued talking but I could barely hear him. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the familiar face in front of me. I knew without a doubt who I was looking at. But I couldn’t stop myself from asking ConspiracyMother to say her name out loud.